


A Place Where No One’s Seen Us Before

by biinarystar



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Elliot works for Ecorp AU, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, fucking in an alleyway, slighty dirty talk?, sort of, still somewhat romantic somehow?, super classy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 09:08:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7634386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biinarystar/pseuds/biinarystar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyrell had been thinking that he and Elliot should take a ride together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place Where No One’s Seen Us Before

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [◄ Tyrell & Elliot {i'm thinking we should ride}](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/218008) by iluvcky. 



> I originally wrote this for my fiance, but decided to post it here to share it with you sinners. Enjoy Elliot getting slammed in an alleyway, I guess?
> 
> Please tell me if my Swedish is horrendous, lmao.

The ride had been a hushed one, no radio, no conversation. Tyrell kept his eyes fixed on the road, but Elliot could catch the corner of a rogue smile playing at his lips. Elliot bit the bruised pout of his bottom lip, flushes at the memory of how it got that way. He glances down at Tyrell’s elegant hand draped over the glove box and tries to distract himself.

He knew Tyrell was planning something, or else he would have told him where the fuck they were going by now. He was still slightly breathless from their broken-off kissing session, still irritated that Tyrell had dared to interrupt. Sure, they may have been risking it in a broom closet, but he could be quiet, god damn it. He’d had 27 years of practice being quiet, he was practically a professional at this point.

He’s abruptly drawn out of his thoughts when he realizes that they’re stopped. His eyes dart out the window, anxiety ramping up in his chest when he sees that they’re closed in by grimy walls. An alleyway? Tyrell’s eyes are on him, bright and unnerving as they always are. He fights the urge to squirm. The way he looks at him sometimes, like a wolf about to snap up a mouse. As if he’d be nothing more than a savory mouthful.

Elliot swallows hard. Tyrell’s smile softens, and he surprises him by pressing their lips together. It’s less the act than the gentle nature of it that takes Elliot off guard. Frankly, it sets off more alarm bells than if the man had started strangling him.

At least that would make some fucking sense. Not that he ever makes a lick of sense. Asshole.

The car is parked succinctly at the juncture of the alley’s opening, it’s gleaming exterior looking hilariously out of place in the squalid area. Elliot shoots him an incredulous glance, as if to say, ‘Fucking really?’ He smiles serenely in reply, and pats Elliot reassuringly on the cheek. Elliot makes a disgusted-sounding noise, bats his hand away.

“Trust me.” Tyrell croons. His voice is soft and coaxing, teasing down his spine like ticklish fingers. Elliot’s stomach twists into nervous knots, but he feels tempted, compliant. He shuffles after him reluctantly, still thrown off by the incongruity of him in a seedy area like this, his fine shoes splashing in oilslick as they go deeper into the gloom.

They round the first corner, and Tyrell is on him before he can even ask him 'Why are we here?' Elliot thrashes, mostly out of surprise, but the full weight of Tyrell's body presses him fast against the alley wall. Deft hands crawl up his sides, and Elliot’s hoodie rides up with them. Rough brick rakes Elliot's exposed skin, reminds him that this is actually happening. Tyrell Wellick is going to fuck him in a filthy alleyway. He breathes raggedly and sways, thrown off balance by the electricity of searching fingers on his sensitive skin. He isn’t touched often, barely even touches himself, and his cells are on fire.

Tyrell’s face hovers above his for a moment, as if he’s going to kiss him, but he doesn’t. Not on the mouth, at least; instead brushing a hot line of breaths over to his ear.

“You look so beautiful like this.” Elliot blinks in surprise, ‘..Like what?’, he asks in his head. 

In harsh contrast with his soft words, Tyrell reaches between Elliot’s legs, squeezes him boldly. Elliot feels his knees nearly buckle, barely hears his voice.

“Mmm, love.” Elliot flushes hard and scowls at the pet name, but finds himself unable to protest. “So gorgeous. Nice and vulnerable for me. God, I want to do such awful fucking things to you.” He strokes him lovingly through his jeans, like he’s petting a treasured pet. “Do you want that?”

Shaking, he grips Tyrell’s shoulders, helpless only to nod. His head is full of endorphins, feels like hot cotton, thoughts aren't coming easily. All he knows is that it's good, so fucking good, and he bucks into his hand despite himself. He feels Tyrell's lips smirk against his earlobe, then trace their way down to his exposed throat. Paranoia twists up Elliot’s stomach; is this where Tyrell finally snaps and tears out his jugular? Wet teeth rake over his Adam’s apple and his mind goes blank, leaving his internal monologue becoming fragmented, quiet. He moans absently as he loses himself to it, his head dropping back against the wall as it empties.

He hated how easily Tyrell was so able to undo him like this. He should be angry with him. Would be, if he wasn’t so distracted by his fingers massaging so persuasively into his cock and lower back. Elliot’s hips rise on their own to be closer to him. He bites back a whimper as Tyrell cups him a final time, then pulls his hand away, leaving him firm and aching. Nearly whines, only barely swallows it down. No, no prey animal sounds. He’d definitely eat you alive, then.

The task grows increasingly difficult as Tyrell dilligently revisits every last fading mark on Elliot’s neck and shoulders, sucking them all into fresh telltale blooms. Elliot flushes as he remembers how he came by them. How long have they been doing this now? Sneaking around together, fucking, conspiring and kissing in secret? He tries not to think too terribly hard about it. He’s almost grateful when Tyrell breaks contact with his abused throat to give him an honest-to-goodness kiss.

Finally, thank fuck.

He allows himself to dissociate into it, half-lidded eyes slowly glazing over as they stare into Tyrell’s. A heady satisfaction settles over his thrumming mind when he sees the want in the CTO’s expression; he wants him, he isn’t just doing this to further some secret agenda. The thought has him shuddering and knitting his hands at Tyrell’s nape, peppering his lips with breathy, desperate kisses. He doesn’t realize how much he’s luxuriating in it until he feels him try to pull away; his fingers shoot up to grab his jaw and fix him there, growling softly in frustration.

Tyrell’s chuckle reverbrates in Elliot’s throat - infuriatingly. How fucking dare he laugh at him when they’re like this? Disgruntled and fighting for some type of control, Elliot slides a thigh firmly over Tyrell’s hip, forces him closer with a deft twist of his body. Bold hands are crawling up his abdomen now, peeling back the layer of his t-shirt to paw his stomach and chest, thumbs coming to rest on the protruding points of his hipbones. Elliot feels a spur of self-consciousness at that, and goes to pull his hoodie back down to cover his supposed shame. A warm hand pauses him.

“Don’t, please.” Tyrell murmurs, sounding almost injured. Elliot freezes as he continues. “I.. want to look at you.”

Reluctantly, Elliot drapes his arms at his sides, peering up at him with a brittle expression. He couldn’t understand why he would want to; he has the emaciated physique of a drug addict. Morphine chic, if you will. But Tyrell is tenderly brushing his hands across his abdomen, meticulously sweeping his eyes over him, like he's examining a work of art. It has him blushing and glancing away. Makes a knot of smothering warmth grow in Elliot’s chest, and he’s not sure if he likes it. Too intimate, maybe? Too close. He squeezes his eyes shut, weathering the intense feeling. Tyrell frowns heavily at this, and decides promptly to get his attention back.

And get his attention he does. Stars burst in Elliot’s skull as Tyrell suddenly slots himself between his thighs, his erection prodding him back to reality. Elliot is squirming then, working his jeans low on his hips as he rocks unevenly into his lap (the best he can while smothered against a wall). One of Tyrell’s hands leaves his chest, palms over the tense zipper of his jeans, and he gulps hard around his thickening tongue. Tyrell unzips him slowly, leans over him to grin against his hair. He says nothing as his hand closes over the obvious bulge in Elliot’s boxers. Elliot does whimper this time, slowly unhinging beneath him as he coaxes him beyond full hardness with coy little strokes. The teasing is driving him mad. Elliot wants to snap at him to get on with it, to just fuck him already, but that would be admitting submission.

As if on queue, Tyrell’s voice ghosts on his ear, throatier now, and Elliot feels his resolve drain quickly.

“My god, just look at you.”

He smiles like the cat that got the cream as he hooks his thumbs in Elliot’s underwear, gloating over his prize.

“Do you know why I brought you here, Elliot?” He drags Elliot's boxers down at last, making a grand show of it.

Elliot moans in relief, shakes his head dazedly in reply.

“It’s because,” He nearly whispers as he unzips himself hurriedly, hitches Elliot’s thighs up, “I couldn’t stop thinking of how lovely you’d look, against a filthy place like this.” He slowly positions himself at his entrance, presses the flushed head of his cock against him.

Elliot grips his shoulders tight, wriggles his hips in the hopes that he'll get fucking on with it already. It's so hard to think like this, and he hates it, needs it, wants Tyrell to fuck him so roughly he'll forget where he is, doesn't want to be reminded.

Tyrell kisses Elliot hard and sudden then, scattering the remnants of his focus. He’s panting when he pulls back, his lips red and slick. “And you do. Som en ängel.” 

Elliot hardly knows what that means, but it makes warmth spread throughout his chest, anyway. He covers his face with a sleeve, discreetly muffling a whimper. Tyrell grabs his wrist and hikes it above his head, forcing their eyes to meet. Then he's sliding himself slowly inside, splitting Elliot open a tad too quickly and pulling a pained hiss from him. He kisses him apologetically, lets his head drops onto Elliot’s shoulder as he readjusts to the tight squeeze, working his hips deftly to grind up against every sensitive bundle of nerves on the way in. Elliot's face is buried in his hair, brows knitting tightly as he mouths soundless swears into it. The stretch is too good, the delicious ache of it. The heat of their bodies is suffocating, and he needs this, he needs it more than morphine. He strokes Tyrell's nape feverishly, shivering against the brick.

 

Tyrell is the first one to make noise, a soft, whirring gasp that absolutely delights Elliot. Partially because he’s flattered he made this statue of a man create a somewhat human noise, partially because he’s won, and he can finally abandon his goal of staying quiet. Little victories. He relaxes somewhat, draping over him bonelessly as he opens himself to his thrusts, enjoying the brutal crash of their hips. Pleasure builds sharply in the pit of his stomach, and it isn’t long that dissolving into choked-off gasps that sound eerily similar to sobs.

Neither of them speak for a while, focusing only on the conversation between their bodies. Elliot's hands scrabble at Tyrell's back, thighs fixed tight around his hips as if he needs to keep him there, like he'd pull away at any moment. There's a pang of something that feels like grief in his chest, and he clutches him tight by the collar. He can't go, no. He needs this. Needs him.

“It’s.. Ahh. Such a pleasing contrast, don’t you think?” Elliot barely registers Tyrell speaking, moaning deleriously as he rails into him. He begins to punctuate every thrust with words, half-snarled, and it goes straight to Elliot's spine. “M-mine. My Elliot. /My/ Elliot. Min kärlek. Ahh, fuck.. H-here where nobody else can see or hear you.”

Knuckles roll tenderly against the side of Elliot's throat, Tyrell’s breath coming warm and uneven and peppered with swears that sound so incorrect in his soft-spoken lilt. Everything about him, about this, was so incongruent, and Elliot couldn’t make any sense of it so he didn’t try. He just striped bleeding ribbons up the tense muscles of Tyrell’s back, tangled his gangly legs around him in what some (not him, of course) would call a lover’s knot. You'd need to be lovers for that. Don't overthink it.

Think, instead, of the way Tyrell looks when he's disheveled. Sunstreaked hair trailing into his face, skin flushed and hot, eyes clouded with.. What was that? Want? Affection? Elliot swallows tersely. Maybe looking at him was a bad idea, after all. He tries to ignore him, but then he's hooking a hand into the dark tangle of his hair, and pressing kiss after kiss into his temple. It's almost like he can sense it.

Elliot thinks he also must have tapered off into broken Swedish at some point, but he’s unclear when. All he knows is that those kisses aren't on his lips any more, and that’s unacceptable. He grasps his flushed cheek and crashes their lips together. To his surprise, Tyrell’s eyelids flutter closed and he lists forward almost submissively. They break the kiss to gasp in shared oxygen and he thinks he hears him slur the word “Please”. Tyrell’s pace quickens with Elliot’s heartbeat, and he’s sure his back must be bleeding from the hard brick grain but he doesn’t care, he has soft lips bruising against his and a warm chest insulating him from the chill of the alleyway and he has Tyrell Wellick, his boss, his tormentor, worshipping him, begging him.

He doesn’t realize he’s coming until he’s already careening over the precipice, his whole body arching and releasing like a firing bow. His head tosses forward onto Tyrell’s shoulder as he rides out the aftershocks, consciousness obliterated. Tyrell follows suit almost immediately, giving a grand shudder and spilling inside him with a tremor and a few short, corkscrewing thrusts. Elliot shivers at the feeling of hot fullness coating his insides; it's strange, but not altogether unpleasant. He feels arms wrapping around him immediately, Tyrell sliding to the pavement with him and cradling him there for a moment. He remains still inside him for a good while, their heads resting against each other as they share ragged breaths and the occasional breathless kiss.

A few minutes pass before either of them is coherent enough to speak. Tyrell fills the time in by pressing soft pecks into Elliot’s nape, slowly and reluctantly easing himself out. Elliot winces at the catch of his head, then the aching emptiness at follows. He draws his knees in close to protect himself, deciding immediately that he hates the feeling. In a surprisingly gentlemanly move, Tyrell swipes his own jacket off and wraps it around Elliot's shoulders. Elliot, who’s breathing had mostly stabilized, glances up at him in confusion. Tyrell shrugs his shoulders, shooting him a droopy-eyed smile that has his heart fluttering. Shit. Don't be charming.

“..Don’t want you cold. That ratty old thing is doing nothing for you.” He says, conversationally.

Elliot rolls his eyes, even as he draws the jacket close. It smells like cologne and coffee. He buries his nose into it when he thinks that Tyrell might not be looking.

Elliot clears his throat, voice slightly raw from shouting. (Had he really been that loud? Jesus.)

“So.. Uh, we gonna go back to work now, or what? Cause I kinda have a serious case of sex legs.”

Tyrell stares at him incredulously for a moment, and then collapses into bubbling laughter. Elliot blushes all the way up to his ears; he's never heard him laugh like that before. Never genuine like this. Oh, god. 

“..Yeah, I suppose we should, huh?” He looks him up and down, quirks a teasing little smirk. “You’ll be changing out of those rags, though. I’m taking you to a meeting with me.”

Elliot groans like he's just been shot in the knee. “Oh, my god, you /ass/. You’d better be bribing me with food.”

“Of course." Then, mumbled below where Elliot could here. "..Have to keep my angel fed."

Elliot's heart skips a beat, and he shoots him a startled look. “..What did you say?”

“Nothing. Let’s go look for one of your shitty fast food places.”

“..Yeah, well, whatever..”

Elliot’s protests are weak as he burrows into his borrowed jacket, limping along in Tyrell’s footsteps. As they walk, Elliot quietly reaches across, links their fingers together, and they stay like that for the remainder of the drive home - a thread of reminder of how close they were just a moment ago.

Neither of them feels the need to make a fuss over it.


End file.
